My 1001 Nights: Tales and Adventures from Morocco

By Alice Morrison

TV presenter, writer and adventurer Alice Morrison gives her own unique and personal insight into Morocco, her home for 1001 nights.

When Alice Morrison headed out to Morocco, it was to take on one of the most daunting challenges: to run in the famous Marathon des Sables. Little did she expect to end up living there. But as soon as she settled in a flat in Marrakech, she was won over by the people, the spectacular scenery and the ancient alleyways of the souk. Soon she was hiking over the Atlas mountains, joining nomads to sample their timeless way of life as they crossed the Sahara desert, and finding peace in a tranquil oasis.

Despite more than 10 million tourists coming to Morocco each year, there is remarkably little that has been written about its people, their customs and the extraordinary range of places to visit, from bustling markets to vast, empty deserts. Alice makes sure she samples it all, and as she does she provides a stunning portrait of a beautiful country. As a lone woman, she often attracts plenty of curiosity, but her willingness to participate - whether thigh deep in pigeon droppings in a tannery or helping out herding goats - ensures that she is welcomed everywhere by a people who are among the most hospitable on the planet. 

Alice came to fame with her BBC2 series Morocco to Timbuktu, and now she joins the ranks of great travel writers who can bring a country vividly to life and instantly transport the reader to a sunnier place. If you're thinking of going to Morocco, or you want to recall your time there, My 1001 Nights is the ideal book. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon & Schuster UK
• Release date: Apr 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9781471174261

Alice Morrison

Alice Morrison was born in Edinburgh, but grew up in Africa before studying Arabic and Turkish at Edinburgh University. After a career in journalism, working for the BBC and as CEO of Vision + Media, Alice then cycled from Cairo to Cape Town and entered the Marathon Des Sables. She moved to Morocco in 2014 and presented her first TV series, From Morocco to Timbuktu, on BBC2 in 2017. Her previous book, Adventures in Morocco, was published in paperback by Simon & Schuster in 2020.

Book preview

1

MARRAKECH

It is the smell that hits you first; a heady mixture of horse pee, charcoal smoke and perfume from a thousand warm bodies. Then it is the noise, the rhythm of drums and castanets, shouts of ‘orange juice, orange juice, orange juice’, the bells from the horse-drawn carriages and the shrieks of excited children as they watch street boys launch neon stingers high into the air. Hollywood couldn’t make up Jemaa El Fna, the main square of Marrakech: it is Africa, the Orient, magical and mythical but at the same time very, very real. It is also the centre of the city and the country that I had arrived in, expecting to stay for four months, but which has grabbed me and won’t let go. It’s four years and counting.

When I left the mists of England’s Peak District on 2 January 2014 with just one suitcase and the scribbled-down address of my new flatshare in Semlalia, my overwhelming thought was, What on earth are you doing, you insane woman? Why are you blowing up your very nice life once again? I had been persuaded to sign up to run the Marathon des Sables, the toughest footrace on earth, six marathons in six days across the Sahara, and I was coming to Morocco to train for it. I was actually going to do this crazy thing.

Charlie Shepherd – friend, founder of adventure company Epic Morocco, expert on all things Moroccan, running and cycling – has a lot to answer for. ‘Go on,’ he had said the summer before, catching me at a weak moment when he had just made me cycle up a very large hill, ‘I’m going to do it, sign up with me. You can do it. You are good at endurance. If you can cycle from Cairo to Cape Town, you can run across the Sahara. It isn’t going to be that hard.’

‘But I can’t run,’ I said, which I felt was an important point, given that we were talking about a 156-mile race across sand in temperatures of over 50°C.

‘No problem,’ said Charlie. ‘You have a good head, which is the main thing.’ At this stage, with hindsight, I know that I should have looked at his physique – wiry, athletic, fit – and then mine – none of the above – and said no. But he is a very persuasive person and I found myself believing him. Next thing I knew I was signed up and panting up hill and down dale in the rain and mud round my home in Hayfield with my running partner, Naomi, and Billy the Running Dog.

As it turned out, that was excellent training, but I wanted to give myself the best possible chance of completing the race (alive) and so I took the decision to rent out my house, pack up my cat, and take myself off to Morocco to run in the sun. It helped that I could do my job – writing, social media and media training – from anywhere, and it also helped that I had studied Arabic at university and had lived around Africa and the Middle East. I was looking forward to using my rusty language again and being in all the warmth and hospitality of an Islamic culture.

Three hours and twenty minutes from Manchester airport and I was taxiing into a different world. From the plane, I could see the snow-capped peaks of the Atlas Mountains giving way to the red plains around Marrakech, dotted with spots of green oases and little adobe-built villages. Then, the twenty-first century starts to intrude as you fly over swimming pools and golf courses, banking up for your first sight of the medina, the old walled town, and the famous red rose clay of the city.

Marrakech is not the capital of Morocco, but for me it really is its heart. It is called many things, including the Rose City and the Daughter of the Desert, and it positively oozes romance. It sits on the fringes of the Agafay desert and you can taste that desert in the air, but at the same time, on a clear day, you can see the blue Atlas Mountains in the distance, tipped with snow. It is called the Rose City because it is obligatory to paint your house to match the ancient mud-built houses of the medina. The clay, which originally came from the surrounding plains and mountains, is a rosy-coloured terracotta. Now, of course, most people build in concrete because it is so much cheaper, but the rose-paint rule means that the city still retains its character.

It could equally be called the Rose City, though, for the number of roses growing along the boulevards and in the gardens. A happy meeting of an excellent climate and rich soil means that roses flourish here and are crammed into every tiny corner of soil, dominating the green spaces of the boulevards. They are tended by mainly female gardeners, who you will see early in the morning, bent double, weeding and pruning, bundled up in layers of clothes to keep the cold, and then the sun, out. The first time I passed a group of them I thought something really odd was going on, as they all seemed to be talking to themselves. I wondered if maybe they were taking part in some kind of community scheme for people with mental difficulties and was silently congratulating the Moroccan government on its forward-looking mental health programmes, until I realised that they all had mobile phones tucked into their headscarves.

The medina is a warren of alleyways and tunnels, punctuated by ancient wooden doors, behind which are hidden many-roomed riads, homes built around courtyards, often housing fully grown palm trees and laced with neon-bright bougainvillea. Each riad is different. One thing they all have in common, though, is that you can’t believe that something so lovely lies behind an often-unprepossessing door in a dingy alley. Before I arrived in Marrakech, I had imagined myself living in one in the centre of the ancient city. This dream was fuelled by the first place I ever stayed in in Marrakech and which remains one of my favourites. It is called Riad Samsara and is owned by a long-time Swiss resident of Morocco, Jacqueline Brandt.

Riad Samsara is at the far end of the medina, near Bab Taghazout. Finding it is typically difficult. The instructions go something like this: ‘You will see a large parking space with sausage sellers. Here, go through the Bab [Bab means gate] and you will pass the mosque on your right. Keep going under the arch past the vegetables and the doughnut stalls.’ (Obviously, it is very difficult to pass a hot doughnut stall where they cook those golden rings in front of you and then dip them in sugar without stopping to buy either one of the huge wagon-wheel ones, or a punnet of little, fragrant nuggets. I wonder if this is one of the reasons I like Riad Samsara so much?) ‘Carry on and then take the second alleyway on the right and continue until you see the big door on the right. If you get lost just ask anyone for Chez Jacqueline.’ The first time I went, I did a lot of asking and eventually paid a little boy 10 dirhams (80p) just to show me where it was and wheel my wheelie bag. My top tip for finding your way round the medina is not to stress about finding things but just to ask and, if necessary, tip someone 10–20 dirhams to guide you.

Stepping through that door was like stepping through the looking glass. It opens out to an ornately tiled courtyard with a marble fountain in the middle, strewn with rose petals. Outside is a cacophony of noise, but inside all you can hear is the song of the birds nesting in the orange trees of the courtyard. Pink bougainvillea and scented jasmine crawl up the walls to the carved wooden balconies that overreach the courtyard. Each room is different, but the grandest is the Hibiscus room. The double bed is so big that I can lie across it without reaching the edges and, if I get bored, I can always repose on the red velvet sofa and look at the art-filled walls. Jacqueline is a collector and has artefacts and antiques in every corner, a family of leather giraffes on a stone-built fireplace, a group of clay musicians on a painted bedside table. But it is the bathroom that really wows you. Burgundy marble on a massive scale and a bath so big you can actually swim in it.

My experience at Riad Samsara notwithstanding, I had decided that for living purposes I wanted the open spaces and easier life of the New Town. Medina life is a very specific thing. You have to be ready to share all you do with your neighbours, who will take a keen interest in your comings and goings. Much of it is only accessible by foot, which makes going in and coming out a thought, and your weekly food shop an impossibility. And, finally, little motorbikes or scooters, called motos here, are a ubiquitous menace, not just a nuisance. They race through the narrowest of streets at 100 miles an hour and if you don’t get out of the way, they will mow you down. I have seen a woman in her seventies with big bags of shopping knocked sideways by two spotty teenagers. She ended up turtle-like on her back, her pantalooned legs waving in the air, surrounded by escaping tomatoes and courgettes. I, and everyone else, rushed to help her, save the vegetables, and castigate the spotty youths. Although they were not nearly apologetic enough, in my opinion.

Motos were the final nail in my coffin with regards to any medina aspirations I may have had and so I put up a message on the Expats in Marrakech Facebook page asking for a flatshare in the new town. My call was answered and the universe sent me Alex Stein, a young American woman who was setting up a charitable arm of a large agricultural company in the south but whose base was in Marrakech. Her three-bedroomed flat with a garden was in Sakia El Hamra, Semlalia.

I was to be very happy in the flat but that first night was grim. Alex wasn’t there so I arrived in the dark to a chilly, echoing, bare flat. January is cold in Marrakech, where the houses are not designed for winter, and I was very happy that I had packed my hot-water bottle. Alex had bought me a bed and a duvet and pillows, so I was set for the night. But as I switched off my solitary, glaring light bulb and clambered under the covers, I wondered again what on earth I was doing.

The next day things got better. Charlie arrived with a bike for me so I could get around the city, I ate breakfast in the garden in the sunshine, including a mandarin picked from our mandarin tree, and Alex arrived.

‘Hellooooo,’ was followed by taptapping boot steps as she swirled into the flat dressed in a fantastically cool khaki cape with epaulettes, chunky military-style boots, masses of curly hair and a bright smile. Leaving my home and my friends and family had been a big step, but the minute I met Alex I knew that with her and Charlie I was going to be fine. I also knew that, between the pair of them, I had my very own Google of Morocco advice. First on my list was to furnish my room so that I felt a little less like I was living in Stalag 17. ‘Bab El Khamis is what you need for any furniture. It’s the local flea market,’ said Alex. ‘Then the medina for all your other stuff.’

Whether you are a shopaholic or a shopaphobic, shopping in Morocco is an experience not to be missed. Don’t worry if you hate shopping at home, doing it here bears no resemblance. Shopping is actually a fantastic way to meet and interact with Moroccans and to learn some basic truths about Moroccan culture and society. But beware, you need to go into it well-rested, well-fed, well-hydrated and with comfortable shoes on – so far, so like a 10-kilometre run – and pace yourself, definitely pace yourself.

There is a Moroccan saying: ‘You have the watch, we have the time.’ Coming from a Western culture, I am used to doing everything as efficiently as possible and can feel myself starting to mentally huff if I feel I am wasting time. I’ve tried to explain this to various Moroccan friends and they think it is hilarious. ‘What are you saving all that time for?’ they ask. Good question, really. Here, time is to be spent, not hoarded.

That first day of shopping was an education. I set off with a long list of things I needed and strode across Jemaa El Fna, not stopping to look at the snake charmers or monkey wranglers, briskly answering, ‘Not today, thank you,’ to a young Senegalese man who asked, ‘Madame, would you like some big, African cock?’, and denying myself the pleasure of a freshly squeezed orange juice from one of the fruit stalls.

Two rugs were the first thing on the list. I picked a likely-looking emporium and delighted the man who accosted me with the inevitable, ‘Come in to my shop, just looking, no buying, very cheap’ by going in. Aladdin’s cave spread out before me, with thousands of hand-woven carpets stacked along the walls, arranged by colour and by type. I felt momentarily daunted. Where should I start? I had no need to worry; Lahcen was at my service. My first lesson in spending time was about to be learnt. Greetings, even to a complete stranger, are likely to be protracted.

Lahcen: ‘Good morning.’

Me: ‘Good morning.’

Lahcen: ‘How are you?’

Me: ‘I am fine, how are you?’

Lahcen: ‘I am fine, how is the family?’

Me: ‘Good, good, thanks be to God. How about you? How’s the family?

Lahcen: ‘Great, and your health?’

Me: ‘It’s good. And you? How is your health? Are you well?’

Lahcen: ‘Thanks be to God.’

Me: ‘Thanks be to God.’

This ritual of greeting is ubiquitous, and once you get the hang of it, it actually makes you feel very connected to people. There is a pleasure in exchanging good wishes before you even start thinking about transactions. It’s a world away from the self-service tills at Sainsbury’s.

Lahcen and I got down to the serious business of looking at rugs. I was instructed to sit on a cushioned stool as his assistant started bringing down carpets of every size and colour. Each one would be rolled out at my feet with a flourish. I half expected a hidden Cleopatra to roll out of the end. I also felt a bit like Cleopatra as I waved my hand, banishing anything that was too big, too orange or too expensive-looking.

Tea was offered and my immediate, British, reaction was to say, ‘No, thank you.’ But, I stopped myself and said yes instead. This was the right choice. The assistant went off to get the tea from the tea shop and was soon back with a hot pot, handfuls of fresh mint and mounds of sugar. I had had thoughts of trying to keep my sugar intake down, but mint tea without it is extremely bitter, so I just didn’t look as Lahcen ladled it into the pot. If you don’t see it, surely the calories don’t count. All three of us settled down for a glass and a chat – after all, we didn’t want to exhaust ourselves with non-stop rug selection; there was plenty of time.

We talked about life in general, how business was going, and if there were lots of tourists about. I was to learn that no matter when or where I ask about business, I get the same answer, which bears a strong resemblance to when you ask the plumber at home if the problem with the U-bend is going to be easy to fix. First, there is a sharp intake of breath, sometimes a bit of a whistle through the teeth. This is followed by some sorrowful head shaking and a deep hmmmmm sound. Then, you get the answer – from the Moroccan shop owner that is, not the plumber, ‘Well, it is not bad, thanks be to God, but it is not like it was. No, it is light for this time of year, not like it was in the past. Then, ahh, then . . . it was good. Tourists everywhere and they spent money. Now, they come but they don’t spend money.’ I would not want to cast doubt on Lahcen’s veracity, but he was wearing a very large gold ring and had all the appearance of a prosperous and happy man.

Back to the rugs. I had selected two and they had been stretched out temptingly in the middle of the room. One nice antique one, thick cream wool with multi-coloured diamonds woven down the middle, and one cheap-as-chips pink one adorned with camels, crosses and triangles. Time to get bargaining. Lots of people tell me that they hate bargaining in the medina and that they wish prices were fixed and ask me how much they should bargain down to. I always quote Charlie on this, as he gave me some very good advice when I first arrived: ‘Pay what you think it is worth and then be happy with your purchase.’ For me, bargaining is a big part of the fun. Sadly, I am not very good at it because I always want the salesman to earn enough profit. I have a vivid memory of going to Imlil in the mountains for a day with my university friends Tanya and Sandra, and watching Sandra with mingled pride, admiration and horror as she beat the price of a red and white pouffe down to almost nothing, leaving the shopkeeper broken, but in awe. To this day, when I go past that shop the owner asks me how my friend is.

Lahcen: ‘Ahh you have chosen two very good rugs, very good quality.’

Me: ‘Thank you, they are both beautiful. So, tell me, what is the price?’

Lahcen: ‘Because you speak Arabic and you live in Marrakech, I will only take a small profit and charge you a local price.’

Me: ‘Thank you. You are so kind. What would that price be?’

Lahcen: ‘Only 2,300 dirhams for both.’

Me [Noting that the line of ‘giving me a good price because I speak Arabic’ is a definite fib and with eyes widened in shock, some of it faked]: ‘2,300 dirhams? No, this is not possible. No, no, no.’

Lahcen: ‘By God, by God, this is a good price. But what do you want to pay, my sister?’

At this stage, both of us settle back onto our stools and dig in for the long haul. More tea is drunk. Discussions take on the lengthy timescale of Middle East peace negotiations, at the end of which I have got him down to 1,150 Dhs, of which 1,000 is for the nice rug. The cheap one really is cheap.

As he wraps up my purchases, Lahcen tells me, ‘You are hard! You are like a Berber woman,’ and I learn that Berbers have the reputation of being tight, or as I, a proud Scot, like to put it – good with money. A whole morning had passed, and I was only one item into my shopping list. Time for me to readjust my expectations of how long it would take me to furnish my room, or indeed accomplish anything in Morocco.

Because I had come to Marrakech to train for the Marathon des Sables, a lot of my experiences have been had while out running. I am a very bad runner. I am not built for it and I seem to have an innate lazy gene that resists every attempt to attain athletic excellence. Also, I have a fatal weakness for cake. Even though I hate getting out of bed and those first few minutes on my feet, I don’t think I have ever been on a run that hasn’t given me something new to look at or think about.

My runs were greatly improved when Linda Lyons, a keen runner, popped into my life. A fellow Scot, she owns Riad Linda in the medina and splits her time between Edinburgh and Marrakech. She contacted me through Facebook and a great running partnership was born. We are a very odd couple, sadly reminiscent of Stan and Ollie as she is tiny and delicate and I am not.

Our morning route is always full of adventure. We start in front of the Koutoubia Mosque, Marrakech’s most famous landmark, just after sunrise to avoid the heat. It is the tallest building in the city at 77 metres, as it is forbidden to build anything higher. It was built by the Almohads in the 1100s after they captured the city from their arch-enemies, the Almoravids. Things did not go exactly to plan, however, and there was a builders’ panic halfway through construction when they realised that the mihrab, which is the prayer niche that shows you which way Mecca is so that you can pray in the right direction, was not actually pointing at Mecca. It was five degrees off. Heads rolled and changes were made, but the Almohads also decided to build a second mosque, identical in every respect and detail, except for the mihrab, which would be oriented towards Mecca. When the second mosque was finished, the mihrab was actually ten degrees off. Go figure!

When I started running in Morocco I was concerned about wearing sports clothes and how I would be received as a strange foreign woman lumbering around the streets. But I didn’t need to worry.

‘Your health!’ shouts the guy from the first motorbike that passes.

‘Bravo!’ shouts the next one.

‘Good work!’ shouts the third.

Our route takes us round the back of the mosque and into the Hivernage through the sculpture garden that was built for the big environmental conference, COP22. I love the big globe made of bicycle wheels that looks like a giant Moroccan lamp, and we always like to titter as we pass the naked bottom of Atlas (you don’t see many naked bottoms here). Then it is on, past the National Theatre and on to Boulevard Mohammed VI. In spring, the fumes from the traffic give way to the heady scent of orange blossom from the trees that shade the route. The first time it happened to me, I couldn’t believe my nose. It was like running into paradise. The blossoms are not wasted. Pickers come in small groups and shake them down onto mats they spread underneath the trees. They earn just 25 dirhams (£2) per kilo. The blooms are then pressed down into oils for use in perfumes, soaps and cosmetic products.

If we are feeling strong, Linda and I take on the ‘extra bit’ which leaves the pavement and takes us along a trail through the olive trees after passing the camel-ride man opposite the Menara mall. This juxtaposition typifies Morocco. On the right, the Menara mall is stuffed with designer shops and fronted by pavement cafés. At night, the fountain is flooded with different-coloured neon lights and a DJ plays, much to the delight of the kids, who love running across it, or just watching the multi-coloured jets. On the left, the camel man sits in his striped wool djellaba with his three camels: two adults and a still-suckling baby. He is there to provide camel rides for tourists both foreign and Moroccan. At the time of day we pass, the camels are having breakfast, munching away contentedly, and, of course, we are always invited for tea.

Under the olive trees, if we are lucky, we catch a glimpse of the army exercising their fine Arab horses, dodging through the trees at a gallop. They stop for us and let us pat the horses’ steaming, velvety muzzles. We also meet a nice Belgian man with his dog. Dogs are not really liked by Moroccans. This is, of course, partly due to the fear of being bitten and the threat of rabies, but it also goes right back to the Prophet Mohammed. It is written that he didn’t like dogs – cats yes, dogs no. I know this because my friend Martin and I had to read a whole treatise on the subject by a ninth-century Iraqi writer called Al Jahiz when we studied Arabic at university. A page-turner it is not.

We’re on the penultimate stretch of our run when we come across Coach. A slim, upright man in his late fifties or early sixties, he is always there, standing by his bicycle waiting for his clients. He gives us a quick session with the weighted bar, stretching and lifting and generally creaking, before we go on to the final sprint back through the rose gardens at the back of the Koutoubia, up past the busloads of tourists having their photos taken with the water sellers.

The water sellers are easily spotted. They wear bright red robes and big, tasselled hats. They carry ornamental goatskin bags that used to be full of water to be bought by thirsty travellers for a dirham. They make much more now in the photographic business, and there is a little gang of five or six of them who are always there behind the mosque. We know them well, and sometimes exchange euros or pound coins that tourists have given them for dirhams. They are a short, cheerful bunch. One of them is the cat and dog man. Every morning, he brings a big bag of entrails and assorted heads for the stray animals in the garden. We know if he hasn’t arrived yet because there is always a group of fat cats and plump puppies waiting patiently for him on the edge of the fountain.

Our end is in sight, the juice cart. Depending on the season, it will be laden with oranges, mandarins or pomegranates. Regardless of the season, it is always decorated with Moroccan flags and a large picture of the king. The cart owner is tall and burly with a twirly moustache

Reviews for My 1001 Nights

[Mokhzani Mustapha · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

It’s so moving! It got me hooked. Highly recommended over coffee.